Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas: Being a Jane Austen Mystery

by Stephanie Barron

  “What does Mr. Raphael West find to occupy him in Hampshire?”

  “His father requires studies, as he calls them, of the various Members. The son is arrived to make sketches of poor William. Only think how droll, Jane! My shabby hound, to figure among the Lofty in a picture of State!”

  I invariably forgot that William Chute had served most of his life among the Tory party; he was so obviously the sporting fellow, rather than the sage of Government. Eliza looked with such affection at her husband, in his leather breeches buttoned at the knee, his rough top-boots, and his serviceable brown coat, that I collected William Chute’s lack of elegance troubled her not at all. The Wests, one presumes, might supply a more proper costume, in paint.

  “That explains a good deal,” my mother interjected suddenly. “I thought the man impudent—for he possesses a most penetrating eye, and very nearly put me out of countenance. But if Mr. West is a painter, he was reared in insolence.”

  So Mamma had felt the weight of the gentleman’s gaze as heavily as I had.

  Eliza smiled at her. “It is said that Raphael West possesses a remarkable talent, but too little inclination. He appears content to serve as his father’s amanuensis, rather than strive for fame himself. It is just as well—for his younger brother is a sad disappointment, and tho’ his father’s namesake, has nothing to do with the parent at all. Old Mrs. West—Raphael’s mother—is very recently deceased of a long and wasting illness; you will observe he goes in black.”

  “Mr. West’s family did not accompany him into Hampshire?” I asked.

  “He has little family to speak of, Jane. Raphael West is a widower. His wife passed away some years ago, I believe. He never speaks of her. There was one child—a daughter. I understand that she is lately married.”

  I should have liked to continue the interesting conversation, but Eliza, after a pause, pressed my mother to partake of further refreshment.

  A little later we were led to our bedchambers, while the gentlemen of the party braved the cold. William Chute can never bear to be long indoors when he might be tramping to the stables, to display his fine pack of hounds. As I followed Eliza up the celebrated staircase, past the Yule log burning brightly in the hall, I reflected that my Christmas should be far pleasanter than I had found reason to hope in yesterday’s snow.

  I ought never to have dared the thought.

  2 Jane’s elder brother, Edward, was adopted by wealthy cousins at the age of twelve, and subsequently named the heir to their estates in Hampshire and Kent. Edward Austen Knight’s good fortune in becoming a landed gentleman was shared to some extent by his family; it was in one of Edward’s cottages in Chawton that the Austen ladies lived out their days.—Editor’s note

  THE SECOND DAY

  5

  A CHRISTMAS CHARADE

  Monday, 26th December 1814

  The Vyne

  The housemaid, to my distinct pleasure, crept into the room I share with Cassandra this morning and swept the remains of last night’s fire from the hearth. As she laid a new one, I raised myself on one elbow—Cassandra still slumbering in the neighbouring bed—and whispered, “What is the hour?”

  “A little past seven by the hall clock,” she replied. “Will you be wanting tea, ma’am?”

  This is the dignity that age has conferred upon me: at nine-and-thirty, I am to be addressed as ma’am. Oh, for the miss of yesteryear!

  I ordered tea, and sank back into my pillows.

  I had assumed The Vyne’s servants would already have quitted the place—it being customary to give them a free day in place of Christmas, when servants are expected to wait upon their masters and silently witness festivities they cannot enjoy. But perhaps they should leave us at midday, when the house party had thoroughly awakened and might be trusted to fend for themselves. When the maid reappeared with my tray I enquired as to her St. Stephen’s Day plans, but her gaze fell as she answered.

  “Indeed, and it is snowing that hard, ma’am, I should never try to walk the three miles home to my mother! Christmas shall have to bide for my next free day.”

  She bobbed and left me in possession of my tea. I did not venture out of bed to peek through the draped windows at the storm—I did not like a sudden white glare to disturb Cassandra. The quiet of the great house around me suggested that no one else was afoot. I sipped contentedly, therefore, conscious of an unaccustomed luxury in the crackling flames and the hot liquid. There was even a branch of holly bestowed on the tray. Nothing was wanting at The Vyne that might supply comfort; indeed, the memory of last evening’s Christmas Feast is one I shall cherish for some time.

  We assembled in all our finery at half after six o’clock last evening—neither so early as to embarrass our hosts before their fashionable London guests, nor so late as to offend country sensibilities. I wore my cobalt-blue silk—newly trimmed with gold spangles during my visit last month to Henry and my publishers in Town. I left off my usual lace cap in favour of a bewitching shako of gold and cobalt, perched on my curls, which were brushed and arranged by Eliza Chute’s personal maid; beside me, Cassandra wore a gown of deep rose. For ladies of a certain age, like ourselves, who go abroad in society so seldom, dress is a matter of considerable anxiety. Our wardrobes are neither large, nor varied, nor costly; it would be as well if we curtailed the length of our stay at The Vyne to suit the breadth of our costumes. But for Christmas Night, at least, we appeared very well—and in the admiration of our friends, I must be easy.

  “I suppose it is a commonplace for ladies who engage in commerce,” Mary said in a lowered tone, “to waste their funds in lavish display.”

  “Indeed,” James replied. “Would that poor Jane’s thirty pieces of silver had been turned to charitable good. But a profit in novels must struggle to find a worthy use; the frivolity of impulse that inspires their creation, must also attend their earnings.”

  “What an extraordinary reticule, ma’am,” Thomas-Vere broke in, his quizzing-glass held up before my mother. “I have never seen its equal.”

  “I netted it myself,” Mamma replied proudly. “Dear Jane brought the silk from London last month—so good to me as she always is.”

  Our party was thirteen, almost evenly divided at Eliza’s contrivance between the gentlemen and the ladies; the schoolroom set supplied three more, accommodated at the middle of the table, so that both the Chutes might have charming partners at their respective ends. The dining parlour at The Vyne is an intimate and cheerful chamber, lined with linenfold panelling nearly three hundred years old. The walls are hung with landscapes and portraits of Chutes long since dead; a fire crackles at one end of the room, and at the other, long windows draped in crimson damask give out onto the lake. The great mahogany board where Walpole once presided was laid tonight for sixteen, with a parade of beeswax candles held aloft in silver, crystal glasses and porcelain chargers, a quantity of greens festooned with silk ribbons, and an exotic faerie castle rising from the centre, carved entirely from a block of sugar. This confection resembled the Regent’s summer pavilion at Brighton, but in better taste. I stole a glance at Caroline, and saw her mouth agape. Far more exciting than Snapdragon, to one raised on Evangelical principles.

  William took in Lady Gambier; Eliza was escorted by Mr. West; Thomas-Vere gallantly claimed my mother; Mr. L’Anglois offered his arm to Miss Gambier, as should be correct, and James took in his wife. Young Mr. Gambier presented an arm each to Cassandra and me, and with perfect good humour we accepted his gallantry. He placed himself between us at table. Mr. West was at my right hand. I turned to converse with him first, as was customary.

  “I trust you benefited from your rest, Miss Austen?” he enquired.

  “—As I hope you did, from your glimpse of the stables and dogs. Do you intend to hunt on the morrow, Mr. West?”

  “Undoubtedly. Tho’ I am no sportsman, I will follow the pack—with a sketchbook in my saddlebag.”

  “Such colour and chaos as the scene presents must be tempting
to one of your skill! I almost wish that I rode.”

  “You do not hunt?”

  I shook my head regretfully. “I was denied the means, as a young girl—clergyman’s households do not run to mounts for all and sundry, you know, and there were a healthy number of us.”

  “Your brother followed your father’s profession, I collect,” he said, with a glance at James.

  “In the very same parish—and being the eldest, was also taught to ride when young. He and Mr. Chute are old friends these five-and-twenty years. James shall be hallooing with the rest of you on the morrow—as will dear Eliza.” I nodded to where she sat at the table’s foot, on Mr. West’s right hand, in a daring gown of silver gauze. There must have been a wistful note in my voice—for I dearly love to be out-of-doors.

  “Then I shall carry the better part of the hunt back in my sketches,” Mr. West replied warmly, “so that we may enjoy it together, in comfortable chairs by the fire!”

  From across the table, Mary cried, “I should dearly love to peruse your sketches, Mr. West! Of all things, I am most alive to Art! I daresay there is not another lady in the country with as fine an appreciation of line or colour as myself. As a young girl, I was always at my sketchbook—but one is forced to set such things aside, regardless of one’s talent or the calling of the Muse, when one has attained the maternal state.” A languishing glance at her children, happily chattering in the middle of the table and fortunately inattentive to their mother’s gushes.

  Mr. West inclined his head without a word.

  “Do not be prating of your poor daubs, my dear,” James hissed audibly at his wife. “Mr. West can have not the slightest interest in them.”

  Poor Mary set her lips in a sneering line and reached for her wineglass.

  Is there any agony comparable to the self-exposure of family?

  My cheeks reddening, I said, “Do you prefer to draw art from life, sir?”

  “Is it possible to draw it any other way?”

  “Your father appears to rely upon invention, for his religious themes; the power of imagination is everywhere evident in his work.”

  “True—but his figures are inspired by living models, his draperies limned from real cloth, thrown over an arm. He possesses the discipline I lack, Miss Austen, to study the smallest detail of his vast compositions, in order that the perfection of each part contributes to the whole. I am too hasty, too impatient, for meticulous study. I prefer to seize my subject with rapid strokes, a thing of the moment. What I lose in perfection, I gain in animation. My father’s generation composes in the classical mode; mine, in the Romantic.”

  I felt my heart quicken. There was a passion to West’s words that argued truth. I had been afforded a glimpse, if only fleetingly, of the man beneath the Fashionable mask.

  “When you write,” he continued intently, “you do much the same. Your Tom Bertram—your pert Maria—your venomous Mrs. Norris—all are sketched with a brevity and deftness that argues economy of effort.”

  “Perhaps,” I said unwillingly, “they are mere caricatures, and thus demand nothing more.”

  “Your Darcy is no caricature,” he retorted. “Nor is Willoughby. I have met that gentleman’s like on countless occasions, in the gaming hells and ballrooms of London—petted, indulged, weak, and subtle. That is where you excel, Miss Austen—in the subtleties.”

  Our tête-à-tête was suspended by William Chute’s raising of his glass, and the resounding chorus of “Happy Christmas” on every side.

  It has been whispered in the parish that The Vyne has fallen into sad disrepair under William Chute’s stewardship; and if one is to compare the house to what it was under its previous owner—when display took precedence over comfort, and Taste was preferred above human warmth, I daresay the whisperers are correct. But in one respect, at least, The Vyne is lavish—and that is in the enjoyment of food and drink among friends. William Chute was forever motioning to his footmen to replenish our glasses last night, first with champagne and Madeira, later with claret and hock; and every variety of dish was on offer. A handsome goose was set out, its skin crisply browned and smelling delightfully of onions and sage; half a dozen partridges accompanied it, as well as teal, and woodcocks; soles in béchamel sauce were at one end of the table, and a lobster cake at the other. I partook of saddle of venison, culled no doubt from The Vyne’s own park. With all this there were French beans and Jerusalem artichokes, stewed celery and mushrooms.

  After the first remove, the white and clear soups went round, with a choice of jellies and Naples biscuit. I turned, as was only correct, to converse with Mr. Edward Gambier, who sat on my left. He had survived his interrogation at my sister’s hands.

  “I understand your family has spent many years in this neighbourhood,” he began, with becoming easiness, “and has been intimate with The Vyne family forever. Tho’ your sister informs me you presently live in the southern part of Hampshire.”

  “Not far from Alton,” I replied, giving the name of the principal town near Chawton. “Our brother commands an estate in that part of the world, and has been so kind as to afford us a cottage. How do you come to be acquainted with the Chutes, Mr. Gambier?”

  “Through my great-uncle,” he returned. “General Edward Mathew. My mother was his niece, you know, and spent much of her girlhood at Freefolk Priors, not far from here. The house, of course, is now pulled down—and another built in its place. Laverstoke House, I believe it is called.”

  “Our acquaintance William Portal owns it now—tho’ the manor is far less homelike than when old General Mathew lived there.” I set down my wineglass. “But this is wonderful! My brother James”—I nodded across the sugar sculpture in his direction—“was married to Anne Mathew, the General’s daughter. They met while dancing at the Basingstoke Assemblies. Mr. Chute was their good angel, in making the introduction.”

  “That will be Mamma and Aunt Louisa’s cousin,” Gambier said shrewdly. “Miss Anne was a twin, I believe. She died while I was still in leading-strings. I see your brother succeeded in forming a second attachment.”

  “He had a young child to raise,” I said shortly. “I confess to a little confusion, Mr. Gambier—how do you come to share your Aunt Louisa’s name?”

  He smiled broadly. “Because my father was brother to the Admiral, of course. The Gambiers didn’t look far when it came to brides, but married two sisters. Mamma is several years younger than my aunt, and much in request—she chose to spend the holiday in Bath, among her acquaintance. But Aunt Louisa has become accustomed to my sister’s company, lacking daughters of her own—and I should sooner spend the season in the country, with a prospect of good hunting, then in all the tedium of Bath.”

  “I could not agree more. I detest the insipidity of such towns, with their host of invalids, all taking their daily dose of water.”

  “And the provender!” Mr. Gambier cried with relish, as the second course was set down. “Bath can offer nothing like a suckling pig, with an apple in its mouth! And I never see such a dish in Town. Are you fond of crackling, Miss Austen?”

  “Invariably,” I said, “but my joy at the sight is entirely for my mother. She is partial to pork in any of its forms.”

  “She seems a grand old lady,” Mr. Gambier said. “I wish Aunt Louisa might have half her energy.”

  “Mamma may give Lady Gambier fifteen years,” I replied, somewhat startled.

  “And that is exactly why I say it,” the gentleman replied, as he was served with crackling. “Only observe how much enjoyment Mrs. Austen betrays, and she with one foot in her grave! Aunt Louisa might as well be at a tragedy-play, for all the animation she offers.”

  “Perhaps she is anxious for her husband,” I suggested. “The Admiral has been absent some time in Ghent, I believe, about the American treaty?”

  “That is true,” he admitted, “but they never seemed particularly bosom-bows when Dismal Jimmy was in country.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  �
�Dismal Jimmy is my uncle’s name in the Service,” Mr. Gambier confided. “On account of he’s so particular about Sunday Service, and no end pious when going into battle. He and my aunt never drove well in harness. A life spent at sea ain’t conducive, you know, to a love-match, particularly when there are no children in the case. That’s why Mary and I”—this, with a nod to his sister, not my brother James’s wife—“spend such a deal of time in Aunt Louisa’s pocket. Cheers the Relation no end—and ensures we shan’t be cut out of the Will by a hired companion. When my father stuck his spoon in the wall last year, he left more debts than funds. Family habit. Must look to the future, and provide.”

  Unblushing frankness appeared to be one of Mr. Gambier’s gifts. After an interval for appreciation of the second course—which was comprised of a beef roast, cauliflower in orange sauce, veal ragout, a dish of macaronis, and a pasty filled with spinach—I managed a reply.

  “Are you then the Admiral’s heir?”

  “Must suppose m’self to be,” he replied. “Unless there’s an inconvenient by-blow hiding in the wings. But I shouldn’t think the Admiral much given to natural sons—too devout by half. They call him the Praying Captain, you know. Devilish bent on Divine Service in the Fleet, and not ashamed to flog all shirkers. No, I think he’ll do the handsome—and remember his nephew, when Davy Jones calls him to the Deep.”

  I could not like the thought of burials at sea, with poor Charles presently aboard—and gave Mr. Gambier no answer. I consoled myself with mince pies and apricot tart.

  AFTER NEARLY THREE HOURS of jollity and conversation, Eliza rose from her place and nodded to the ladies. We left the men to their privacy and their port. I little doubted, with a Member of Parliament passing the bottle, that talk should be of the American War; and dearly wished I might have overlistened the gentlemen’s opinions. It is not often, living in retirement as we do, that the Austen ladies are treated to informed society; we rely upon the London newspapers for nearly all of our intelligence of Government events. But this evening I should have to contain my impatience a little longer. I congratulated myself, however, that Mr. Chute must receive his papers promptly, no matter the condition of the roads, owing to his position—and that I might have a comfortable coze with them in the library while the men were out hunting.